by Karen White
My one consolation was that I would have Rebecca—and any other children I might bear through our union. The thought always made me flush like a virginal bride. But I was hardly that, and chastised myself for my foolish notions and weak knees that appeared every time he entered the room.
We were married on the last Friday in September. In addition to the new clothes that John had ordered for me shortly after my arrival at Whispering Oaks, I had had several new dresses made, including a wedding gown of dove gray silk, as I could not imagine wearing either one of my own or one of Elizabeth’s. The dresses John had ordered for me were brightly colored reds, blues, and yellows, making a travesty of my mourning. I had thanked him, then had them put away in an armoire in one of the guest rooms.
At the dressmaker’s, I had felt like a child in a candy store, choosing between the multihued bolts of cloth. Still clinging to my mourning, I picked out only muted colors of gray and brown, but when I looked at my reflection I felt almost beautiful.
The clouds dripped halfheartedly on the small wedding party, anointing our hair with tiny kisses of rain. I stood on the church steps and smiled at my groom, intent on casting off any dark thoughts brought about by the weather. Marguerite, pausing earlier while helping me dress, had clucked her tongue as she looked out the window of my bedroom. “It is a bad sign for it to rain on your wedding day.”
I had shrugged, determined not to let her words sour my wedding, but a little shiver of apprehension crept down my spine, settling in my stomach. I had stared at the reflection of the pearl necklace about my neck and could not help but remember Elizabeth’s wedding day, when the clouds had blackened, unleashing a torrent of rain that had saturated the earth and turned the roads into muddy creeks.
Whenever I smell the odor of wet leaves and moist earth, I remember that day as I stood at the altar of Grace Episcopal Church in Saint Francisville next to John and exchanged vows to last until death did us part. His kiss burned my lips, as if branding me his.
We were to honeymoon in New Orleans, and after extracting promises from Delphine and Mary not to let Rebecca out of their sight, we set off in a closed carriage driven by Mr. O’Rourke.
John sat next to me and took my hand. Slowly, he drew off my glove and moved my fingers to his lips. “So. It is done.”
I looked into those dark, unfathomable eyes and wondered what he meant. “I would not say it is done, but, rather, that this is the beginning.”
He gripped my hand tightly. “But all endings are the beginnings of something new.”
I nodded, then leaned against the back of the seat, suddenly tired. He moved my head to his shoulder, and I must have slept, for when I awoke, we were on the outskirts of the city.
I had always loved New Orleans, with its brash mixture of French and American customs and the grand mansions of the Garden District and Vieux Carré. The intricate iron balconies and balustrades delighted me with their foreign appeal, and I had thought as a child that they always made the buildings appear gift-wrapped.
We checked into a small hotel on Royal Street, the accommodations intimate yet exquisitely furnished. Our suite consisted of two main rooms, a sitting room and bedroom, and I paused with trepidation in the threshold of the room with the large rice poster bed with heavy silk drapes.
After the porter had delivered our bags, John came to stand behind me and kissed me on the neck. “All in good time, my dear,” he said. “But, alas, I have reservations at Antoine’s for a late supper. Shall I help you dress?” He removed my traveling cloak while I tried to breathe calmly.
All of my senses seemed sharpened somehow; every color, every sound, every touch seemed brighter, louder, and more sensitive. “No.” My voice shook. “I would like a maid sent up, please. I need help unpacking and selecting a gown.”
He nodded, his eyes once again hiding his thoughts from me. I turned away, thankful for his compliance. I needed time to fortify my mind before he touched me and all rational thought deserted me.
We sat in the glow of the candlelight at Antoine’s, eating and drinking and talking intimately. I do not recall what was said or what we ate, but I do remember how I felt. The way he looked at me and the way he held my hand made me feel more whole than I had since I had lost my son. The grieving mother and destitute widow was not the woman in the dark amber silk gown with her hair piled high on her head and pearls glowing at her throat. This woman was new to me; she was a woman desired by the man across the snowy white table linens from her, and a woman equally capable of the same desires.
The ride back to the hotel was quiet, but the darkness inside the coach was filled with a heady anticipation that was thick enough to fill my lungs. John lifted me out of the carriage in front of our hotel, his touch solicitous and chaste, but my response was the same as if he had touched my naked flesh.
He opened the door to our room and allowed me to enter first. Before I could turn around, his hands were on me, the pins from my hair pulled out and scattered on the plush rug at our feet. With quick hands he expertly undid the myriad buttons of my gown, leaving it in a pool of silk at my feet.
His lips ravaged mine as his hands efficiently disrobed me, his fingers adept at every nuance of a woman’s clothing. I stood trembling, wearing only my chemise, as he knelt in front of me to remove my stockings. Strong fingers slid up my nearly bare legs, coming to rest on my exposed thighs. We said nothing, but each of us knew the steps to this primal dance; no words were needed. Slowly, he slid the stockings down one leg, then the other, his eyes never leaving my face.
He stood, bringing the hem of my chemise with him, carefully lifting it over my head. He reached his hand out to my neck and I realized that I still wore the pearls. “Yes,” he whispered. “This is how I saw you.”
He bent his head toward me, his lips brushing my neck. I had never felt this wanting before, this need. It frightened me yet it exhilarated me, too, awakening the woman in me that had lain dormant for so long. I shed the skin of the grieving widow and became John McMahon’s wife: cherished and desired, a woman of passion.
John lifted me and carried me to the bed, laying me down on the turned-back covers. He began to undress and I sat up to watch him, a craving rising within me like I had never known. The lamps burned low, casting deep shadows on the walls. But instead of being foreboding, they warmed the room, creating the impression of being in a cocoon. My bare feet sank deeply into the sheets on the bed and I arched my spine in a luxurious stretch, feeling his eyes upon me.
I lay back, my arms reaching for him, and he came to me, pressing his warm flesh against mine. There was no tenderness between us in our hunger. It was as if we knew we would have a lifetime for discovery, but this first time would be to claim each other.
Afterward he rolled to my side but held me close. His eyes shone from the streetlamp outside the window, and the look in them made me catch my breath. He had claimed my body, and now he seemed intent on claiming my very soul. Had he ever looked at Elizabeth in the same way? And is that what drove her away?
He must have felt my slight withdrawal, for he reached for me, pulling me on top of him. “I knew it would be this way between us.”
I turned my face away, my cheek against his bare chest, embarrassment at my wantonness flooding over me.
Lifting my chin, he raised my face to his. “Do not be ashamed, Cat. This is the way it is supposed to be between man and wife. What has gone before no longer matters. It is just you and me now.”
His hands slid down my bare body, coming to rest on the dip of my waist. Raising his head, he ran his tongue along the sensitive skin of my neck, making me shudder. I fought to keep my voice steady. “I do not want this to be all there is between you and me.” My skin shivered as his hands caressed my bare back while his eyes continued to glitter in the darkness.
His hands moved behind my neck, brushing the pearls and lifting my hair, bringing my face close
r to his. “My dear, there was never any question of that.” He pressed his lips against mine, and I soon forgot all of my questions and concerns, lost as I was in the riptide of his lovemaking. I was not sure whether I was drowning or swimming, and as the hours of that first night together ticked on, I simply did not care.
* * *
Ours was an idyllic honeymoon. We ate in wonderful restaurants, strolled along the river, and spent hours in the shops, purchasing things for the house and gifts for Rebecca. I still had the suspicion that there were things John preferred to keep hidden from me, but in our time together, I learned that he was capable of great thought and feeling. He made me laugh again, a sound that had become foreign to my ears. For that, I was grateful.
He expressed concern over my thinness and questioned me closely over the condition of my home in Saint Simons. He seemed to be storing away the information for future use, but when questioned about it, he only smiled and diverted my attention to a street vendor selling pralines.
I no longer feared the night, but instead looked forward to the sunset with breathless anticipation. John had awakened a passion in me I had not known existed but which he insisted he had known had always dwelled within. We would make love through the long hours of the night, then sleep in each other’s arms until late morning. The hotel maids instinctively knew not to disturb us and let us sleep. It was terribly decadent, but John’s touch consumed me, erasing all other concerns.
Throughout my days and nights with John on our honeymoon, I would think back to that girl I had once been: Robert’s wife and Jamie’s mother. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it seemed she was no longer there. I still bore my grief for my son, but I could now regard Robert’s absence in my life as a gift of freedom, and felt very little remorse at the thought.
On our last night in New Orleans we dined at the St. Charles, and we were both surprised when we looked up during the main course and saw Philip Herndon approaching.
John did not stand to greet his neighbor, but placed his fork deliberately on the white tablecloth with a snap.
Philip bowed to me, then turned to John. “Allow me to congratulate you both on your recent nuptials. I have been in town for a while and I missed the big celebration.”
I thanked him, while John merely stared at him with barely concealed dislike.
Philip continued. “I can only hope that this marriage has a much happier ending. I have a great fondness for Cat, and I would hate to have her dead, too.”
John stood suddenly, his chair wobbling but, blessedly, not falling over. Heads had already begun to turn. “I demand an apology for that remark, Herndon.”
Philip stared at him insolently. “So you can call me out and kill me, too? Everyone knows you are a crack shot, John. But what is one more murder on your hands?”
I knew I had to intervene before matters disintegrated further. Standing, I put myself between them. “Please,” I whispered urgently to both men. “Do not cause a scene. Surely this matter can be settled when you have both had a chance to cool off, and in a more appropriate place.”
John looked at me and must have read the pleading in my eyes, for he stepped back. “My wife has uncommon good sense. But I do not wish to speak with you later—or ever. I have no use for irrational men.”
I clasped John’s arm, hoping to create the impression of a united front. We were husband and wife, and I wanted Philip to understand that attacking John would be akin to attacking me.
Philip leaned close so that only John and I could hear. “I will not forget what you have done. You have taken away the most precious thing in my life, and I will see that you, too, shall lose that which you hold in the highest regard.”
With a brief glance at me, he turned and left, oblivious to the heads turning to follow him out.
Shaking, John sat down. The meal was ruined for both of us and we soon left the restaurant, not even waiting to finish the last course.
His lovemaking that night was fierce, his touch tender yet his passions boiling under the surface of his skin. When I touched him, he was as if a man with fever, and I found myself arching toward him, trying to match his heated ardor. Afterward, he cradled me in his arms, making me feel more cherished than I had since I was a small child. I laid my head on his shoulder and slept.
* * *
Our honeymoon ended after only a week. John promised me an extended European honeymoon the following year, but for now he was needed at the plantation and mill and he did not want to leave Rebecca so soon after her mother’s death.
I did not argue, as I was also anxious to return to Rebecca. I wished only that we would be returning to Saint Simons instead of Whispering Oaks. When I thought of my new home, it was always with apprehension. The dark shadows, unseen footsteps, and haunted past seemed to follow me like a ghost—a ghost who refused to be exorcised.
We were both subdued on our return journey, John’s brow furrowed with dark thoughts that he did not share with me, and me with my own. I thought back on Philip’s words and wondered at his threats. He obviously still believed that John had something to do with Elizabeth’s death. I did trust in John’s innocence. He had given me his word. Then why the small shadow of doubt that threatened to obscure my new happiness?
I looked up suddenly to find John watching me closely. I colored, imagining that he could read my mind, and looked away. Whether he guessed my thoughts, he did not say. We had promised not to speak of Elizabeth’s death again, for it was a topic we both preferred to avoid. My reasons were obvious: I simply did not wish to be reminded of the person my sister had become. But for John, his reasons went unexplained to me.
Rebecca ran out to greet us, enthusiastically hugging us each in turn. She greedily unwrapped the porcelain doll with yellow hair and blue eyes, easily putting it aside with the fickle nature of small children, when she saw the sweets we had brought. I had deliberately avoided buying her licorice, knowing how she disliked it, and enjoyed her cries of pleasure when she spotted the peppermint sticks.
After greeting his daughter, John went immediately to the sugar mill, leaving me alone with Rebecca. While my bags were brought up and Marguerite unpacked for me, the child and I went for a walk. She sucked on a peppermint stick as we walked, her words garbled. I smiled at her attempts to speak and suggested she remove the candy for me to understand her better, but she stubbornly refused.
I held her hand, now sticky from the candy, as we walked along the perimeter of the pond, me with a constant wariness over how close we came to the edge. She paused on the far side and pointed toward the orange grove. “Do you want to see my secret now?”
Her fingernails were filthy, and it was clear that she had been digging near the orange trees again. Feeling I should humor her, I agreed. It was late afternoon, and the early-autumn sky was beginning to darken. The trees in the grove had been severely damaged in a storm several years before and had long since given up their fruit. Now the naked limbs reached up to the sky in silent supplication like the arms of barren mothers.
I realized for the first time how quiet it was in the grove. Even the screech of insects seemed to bypass this place, as if they, too, respected its peaceful solitude. Elizabeth had once told me that the orange grove had been the site of another burial mound, smaller than the one on which the house had been built. I thought again of Rebecca’s claims of finding a dead body and wondered with trepidation if indeed she had.
She ran to the farthest corner of the grove, an area completely out of sight from the main house, and knelt down beside a tree trunk. “Over here, Aunt Cat.” Even from where I was, I could tell where new dirt had been replaced by old, the topsoil removed and then scraped back. A deep indentation in the middle of the small rectangle of dark soil showed where small fingers had been diligently digging.
I stood looking down at the disturbed earth and was about to suggest we go find help to finish the digging when a g
limmer of something shiny caught my attention.
Kneeling down, I placed my hands on the cool earth and peered into the hole. I stared hard, not really believing what I saw until I reached out and touched it. The letterbox.
With my heart thumping, I stuck my hands in the dirt and began frantically scraping away. I sent Rebecca to go find a couple of sharp sticks and she returned, excitedly holding up our new digging instruments.
Knowing the size of the box, I easily outlined the shape with one of the sticks, which made the process easier. It hadn’t been buried deep, and it took less than half an hour to release it from its grave. The sky had almost completely darkened by now, leaving only thin traces of glowing orange to guide us back to the house.
I sent Rebecca to the kitchen to wash up while I went to the front of the house, knowing that the servants at this time would be mostly by the kitchen. I had no idea who had buried the box, but whoever it was had obviously wished for it to remain hidden.
Cautiously, I opened the front door and entered. As I reached the bottom step, I heard movement in the dining room. Peering over my shoulder, I spied Marguerite setting the table. Our gazes met but I kept my back to her, only nodding as I proceeded up the stairs. As I pushed open my bedroom door I noticed behind me the trail of dirt, and I made a note to sweep the steps before anybody saw.
I quickly hid the letterbox under the bed, then stood, taking note of my surroundings with dismay. All of my things were gone. The armoire doors stood open, exposing empty shelves and hooks, and my dressing table had been completely stripped. I realized with a mix of excitement and apprehension that my things had been taken to the master bedroom.
